Ringmaster
by Oneirophobic
Summary: ( CHICAGO ) - Looping in and out of the film's storyline through Billy Flynn's eyes.
1. Billy Flynn

**Author's Note**

As anyone who's familiar with _That Horizon_ will tell you, I'm not one to bother too much with researching for a fanfiction. I've done my best to be accurate here, and I did spend a little extra time, but I have no doubt that I've screwed something up. Um.. I suppose I started this story after reading a slew of _Chicago_ fanfictions on this site; though I have nothing against the apparent mass of Velma/Roxie fans, it was becoming a little tedious. I decided that our "greasy Mick lawyer" deserved a chance. I don't believe I have the energy required to create any sort of back story for the guy, but.. Something might show up; the most loathsome characters are usually the most fun. Presently, I'm thinking that this will cover a period slightly before, during, and after the film. Enjoy. =)

Concerning the date: The trials that the film was based upon took place in 1923. _Chicago_, though, seems to take place sometime during the _late_ '20's. Roxie moved to Chicago in 1920 and had been married to Amos for seven years. Therefore, I suspect that the film is set in '27 or possibly even later. We'll stick with that for now. =P

Disclaimer: _Chicago,_ Billy Flynn, Roxie Hart, Velma Kelly, and any other recognizable characters are in no way connected with me, and I assure you that I am not making a profit from them.

__________

Ringmaster

_"It's all a circus. A three-ring circus."_ ~ Billy Flynn

**Chapter One** - _"Billy Flynn"_

_Chicago, 1927_

_Nowadays, morality is a joke._ Chicago housed a fathomless number of addicts, bootleggers, homicides, and charlatans. Flynn was arguably worse. He thrived on the turmoil of his society; he cheated, plundered and raped it; he would have stooped low enough for his nose to scrape the floor for a buck, for chrissakes. He was not _dirty_, though. Lord no; the old shyster was _not_ a _dirty_ cheat nor a _dirty liar_. Billy Flynn preferred a spotless exterior. 

In a period where vice ruled, crime had become the hottest form of entertainment. The filthy murderers and petty thieves born of that hellhole were hoisted, as heroes, onto shoulders of the city. A capable attorney could fare well; very well. Should he prove exceptional, however, was another matter. In the Chicago of 1927, an exceptional practitioner of the law could run the circus. Yeah, Billy Flynn was just like that. 

-_-_-_-

_A "good year?"_ he chuckled, striking a match. _The biggest goddamned understatement of the century._ A smug grin pulled at the corners of his lips as two well-manicured fingers delicately plucked the cigar from between them. "Yessir," he exhaled, losing himself in a cloud of dusty gray. The rooftops shifted slowly back into view, glowing from beyond the window panes as the swirling curtain began to disperse. Replacing the Buck between his extraordinarily immaculate front teeth, Billy Flynn reclined contentedly into the cerulean satin, hands folding themselves lazily over the silver buttons queuing up his torso. Tilting his chin, the counselor issued a blank stare to the painting overhanging his decidedly untidy desk for a moment before allowing his eyelids to slip shut. Briefly, his thoughts took an oddly introspective turn.

Yes; it had been one hell of a "good year" for William C. Flynn, Attorney At Law. The work load he'd picked up in the last twelve months was staggering; he could count the idle minutes on the fingers of one hand. Sharkish, dark irises peered out from half-cracked eyelids as his chin rested thoughtfully against his breastbone. As far as Billy Flynn was concerned, stagnation was sinful; and he was no sinner; the lady felons of Chicago were seeing to that. He shifted, rolling his shoulders and arching his neck into the chair back. With a satisfying _crack_, Billy settled back into the stillness. 

The buzz of the telephone cut through the web of lethargy that the loathsome inaction had begun to weave. Brushing his fingers up the rough hollow of his jaw, he swiveled the chair around. Billy stared at his desk momentarily, searching out the 'phone. When it pealed again, he set upon the substantial mound of clutter littering the surface of his work space, muttering incoherently. He managed to locate the telephone beneath a stack of the previous week's _Trib_. Sweeping the papers aside, he quickly snatched up the receiver and held it to is ear before the goddamned device could utter another sound. 

"Yes?" He inquired around the cigar.

"Mr. Flynn? There's a Miss-" a pause, "Morton on the line for you." 

"Put her through." Billy's free hand reached up to massage his temple. Shortly, the matron's voice crackled over the line. 

"I've got another one for you." No surprise. He shook his head with a grin, reaching to put out his cigar. 

"That Kelly dame?" 

"Velma Kelly. That's the one. You saw the papers?" 

"Mm-hm. If she has the money," he glanced at his watch, "I can be right over." 

"She's got the money, Mr. Flynn. Trust me." The line went dead. _For the record, I don't._ He dropped the receiver into its cradle, turning to face one of the two windows. The early evening sun was just beginning its descent. Plucking his jacket from where it lay draped over the chair's back, he pivoted towards the door, exiting the office. 

-_-_-_-

"I'm going out, Nancy. Call for my car, hold my messages." Having settled the overcoat across his shoulders, he reached for his hat and gloves. 

"Of course, Mr. Flynn." His secretary did not look up from her desk, merely offering him a distracted wave and picking up the telephone. Pulling the felt brim over his eyes, Billy Flynn ventured into the December chill. 

__________

_To tell the truth, I don't have any definate plans for this story. I'm going to get through it chapter by chapter and see where it takes me. Reviewing will make me happy. Do it._ =) 


	2. Velma Kelly

**Author's Note**

Give me a chance. I'm getting better at this. I think. Making the transition from my PotC fic to this is no easy task. Um.. Yeah. Velma gets her own small part in this chapter, too. Sorry to disappoint those of you here for Billy.(Who is, by the way? I want to know who else digs the bastard. If anyone ever reads this, that is.) =p

Disclaimer: Same as always.

__________

Ringmaster

**Chapter Two** - _"Velma Kelly"_

The evening was bleak. Had a blizzard raged a path across Illinois, the weather couldn't have conjured up a more dreary atmosphere. The wind howled up and down the streets, whipping up coats and scarves and brutalizing the bare faces of the few souls who dared to venture outdoors. A few motorcars puffed and labored along the icy shell encrusting the majority of the road. Two small figures, a girl and a boy of similar age, trailed gloomily behind their frail, pneumonia-ridden mother. 

If it had any relevance to anything whatsoever, Billy would have seen this from the car's partially fogged window; he would have wondered at the woman's decision to brave the streets in such conditions. As it turned out, it didn't and he didn't; Billy Flynn was possessed of a notoriously single-track mind. Instead, he found himself staring vacantly into the back of the chauffeur's head for the duration of the drive from his building downtown to the jail. His thoughts, though, were in no way inspired by Joe zilch's scalp hygiene. _Kelly.. Double homicide, wasn't it? Ought to be interesting. Show me five grand, doll, and I'm yours._ He grinned wolfishly. It wasn't until the automobile literally _slid_ to a stop that frozen December reality flooded back to him. The driver hastened to disengage the engine, hopping out to get his employer's door. The man was familiar with Mr. Flynn's temper; he wanted nothing to do with it. 

Billy blinked out of his reverie, shaking his head as he unfolded himself from the back seat. He turned to the driver as his heels clicked on the icy asphalt and touched the brim of his hat lightly. 

"I'll have Miss Morton inform you when I'm finished here." This said, he smoothed his tie and pulled the front of his overcoat closed to ward off the chill preying upon any patches of skin bold enough to remain bare. He turned, trotting up the steps. The Cook County Jail peered ominously from the gloom as it swallowed the lone figure. 

-_-_-_-

If nothing else could be said about the previous twelve hours, she had certainly fed the ravenous gossipmongers of Chicago. _Double Homicide - V. Kelly Bumps Off Husband and Sister_. Damned right. Still, it didn't change the fact that she'd landed herself in a mess; there was no doubt in Velma Kelly's mind that the next stage she danced on could be a gallows. 

As always, she had maintained perfect composure throughout the ordeal. When interrogated following her(what she considered) dramatic arrest, Velma had stuck to her story without a hitch: _I passed out. No, I don't remember. I have no idea who did it._ After an exchange of doubtful looks, the cops had her shipped off to the big house. Swell. From there, she had been questioned at least three and a half more times, stripped down and measured, photographed, and generally shoved around until she had finally landed a cell. The difference between the temperature outside and that of the cell block was negligible. Might as well have left all the windows in the joint wide open. It goes without saying that the flapper's first night as a felon was not an easy one. 

The next morning's papers, however, almost made the entire thing seem worthwhile; her face, in the brilliant medium of fresh ink, stared out from the cover of every last one. 

She had been looking over one such publication when a rather large person intruded on her self-admiration. 

"Velma Kelly." She started, the paper falling to her lap as she turned. A heavy, dark-complexioned woman stood just beyond the bars of the cell, neck craned to read over the jazz diva's shoulder. "You've certainly stirred things up, dearie. Good for you." 

The woman was clothed in a dull gray uniform, her dark hair hugging her scalp in tight, irregular curls. Velma's lips softened, offering what she assumed to be a pleasant smile. 

"Good morning, Miss Morton." She knew the matron by reputation alone. Morton gasped, clasping her hand over her heart in mock offense. 

"Please; call me 'Mama.'" Velma peered through the grid momentarily, quirking a slim brow. 

"If you say so, Mama." She scooped up the newspaper, turning to the second page.

"Would you like the others, too? I can get you all of today's papers." Velma didn't look up. 

"Yeah? How much will that cost me?" They understood eachother perfectly. 

-_-_-_-

The Kelly kid definitely had dough. She wanted the best. Mama Morton wasted no time in fetching him.

-_-_-_-

The jail house was as disgusting as ever. No surprise. Women were everywhere, some milling about their cells while others were absorbed in various tasks. They looked up curiously at his entrance; some even waved. Again, no surprise. 

"Hey, Billy." One or two would call. He'd tip his hat, forcing a passably genial smile. 

"Good evening, ladies." He wended his way along the row of bars, eyes forward. He wasn't keen on attracting more attention than was necessary; if the inmates weren't murderers, they always seemed to come in one of two other varieties: whore and dope fiend. _Or both, God forbid._ Their eyes would tail him greedily until he turned out of sight, humming nonchalantly. _Swell joint._

-_-_-_-

Chicago's newest celebrity had spent her first day of fame well. Very well. Other than her brief exchanges with Mama, Velma hadn't bothered to speak a word or lift a finger. This arrangement suited her just fine. 

She chuckled softly, rolling to her back. The bedclothes, partially twisted around her thighs, rustled with the movement. Footsteps rapped on the grating outside. She would have liked to have enjoyed the remainder of the evening in the much the same way; it would have been nice. Unfortunately, nothing seemed to go her way for long. 

"Velma," the matron whispered sharply, "Velma, get your keister in gear. Your lawyer's waitin'." _Lawyer? Five more minutes, goddamnit.._ More footsteps. Then, "Velma!" Mama had bent over her. Velma could feel the wind as the woman bellowed. "Don't make me shake you. This cat don't give a shit about your damned beauty sleep." The figure occupying the cot turned its head with an indignant groan, its eyelids parting company reluctantly. 

"I'm awake, Mama."

"About time. He's waitin' downstairs. I'll let him know you're coming," she turned to make good on her word, "I'd get my skinny ass down there if I was you." 

"Yeah, yeah." Velma scowled after her. 

-_-_-_-

When she emerged from the bathroom, Velma paused before descending the staircase. Her eyes scanned the room below the platform; no men in sight. Before she could puzzle over her attorney's conspicuous absence, the matron's face appeared from between a set of double doors occupying the far wall. Spotting Velma, Mama beckoned her over. 

After hastily issuing the diva into the room beyond, Mama promptly disappeared again, calling, "Don't do anything stupid," and shutting the doors behind her before Velma could utter a protest. A male throat cleared itself impatiently as she began to turn and confront the room at large, alerting her to the presence of the second party before her eyes could even fall on him. He was perched on the edge of the much-abused table set up in the center of the floor space, arms folded loosely across his chest and feet dangling just above the concrete. He was clothed in a ritzy slate business suit, intaglio carved onyx studs glinting from his cuffs. There seemed to be a pattern of grays and blacks with him; his hair, slicked back rakishly, was almost uniformly the color of ash. His eyes were of the deepest, coldest brown. The sight of the sharply dressed attorney seated on the wobbly, peeling table was almost too much; she tried to stifle a short bark of laughter, failing miserably. 

"Something funny, Miss Kelly? It _is_ Miss Kelly, isn't it?" He remained seated, inclining his chin a few degrees to peer at her. She regained her composure briskly, offering him a deliciously phony smile as she allowed her shoulder to sink back against the door. 

"I am. Other than a lawyer," Her eyes flashed over him a second time, "Who are you?" He finally stood, sliding from the tabletop; its uneven legs clunked hollowly back into place as his weight shifted. 

"My name is Billy Flynn," he smiled. It was charming, in an odd sort of way; the man was dangerously charismatic. 

__________

_I can't write from Velma's point of view. Can you tell? Unless it's absolutely necessary later on, it won't happen again._

The purpose of Velma receiving her own section here was pretty much to allow for an outsider's view of Billy. I like to describe him; he's Richard Gere, what can I say? 


	3. Infamy

**Author's Note**

Wow. I don't want to know how long it's been since I last updated _Ringmaster_. I had part of a chapter sitting around, so I've decided to thank the recent reviewers of my long-neglected story with an update(it's short -- I'm sorry). I promise that I'll try to focus on updates for both of my stories this summer. Thank you. 

To be honest, I had some difficulties with this chapter; I wasn't really sure how to handle the relationship between Billy and Velma. Seeing as how we don't get to witness too much interaction between the two in the film, I don't have a lot to work with. Although it may appear to be heading in that direction, I don't particularly like slashes, so don't expect one; in my opinion, there's nothing more blasphemous to a character. Disclaimer: Same as always. 

Ringmaster

**Chapter Three** - _"Infamy"_

At first, the woman seemed to be precisely what he'd expected. Hell, she was more typical than even he could fathom. Velma Kelly was just the most recent victim of the great defiler that was Chicago. He knew that she was guilty immediately; she was a goddamned beacon of guilt. _Of course, I knew before I got here. They always are._ Experience never lied. It didn't matter, anyways; not if she could pay for his services. 

"My name is Billy Flynn." he'd said. She'd grinned smugly, offering her hand in response to his introduction. _Wonderful._ He bent over it, lifting the silken slope of her knuckles to his lips. _Sometimes I swear the money isn't worth it._ Maintaining the amiable expression he strictly reserved for business, the lawyer hastily motioned the murderess into one of the three chairs pulled up to the repulsive table. When she had seated herself -- rather reluctantly, he noted -- Billy set to pacing the wall opposite her seat; Velma's eyes followed. 

"Look.. Miss Kelly," the rhythmic tap of his patent-leather shoes paused as he swiveled to face her, "Before you get too comfortable, you should understand that my fee is five thousand dollars." At this, she merely arched a brow, reclining more casually into the chair. She might as well have been _draped_ over it. Oh, yes; he knew her type. 

"Well, Mr. Flynn," she smiled innocently, extracting a cigarrette from the front of her blouse and setting it between her lips, "Are you worth five grand?" _Ha, ha._ He exhaled calmly and deliberately. 

"You won't find anyone better in this state, doll," he forced a pleasant -- not a trace of the shyster's overwhelming impatience; he prided himself on this particular talent -- smile, holding her gaze, "My record is testimony enough. Never lost a case." This, at least, seemed to have caught her interest. Momentarily. 

"Never?" 

"Never." 

She pulled at her cigarette distractedly, her eyes suddenly shifting as though she'd discovered something of interest clinging to the ceiling tiles. In this place? It wouldn't surprise him in the least if she had. His attention remained fixed on her. If she planned on hiring this particular attorney, this move of inattention was a mistake. Should Billy Flynn spot hesitation where payment was concerned, he was out the door. She was on his time. _Next._ He regarded Velma for a thoughtful moment before crossing the room to liberate his possessions from the chair across from her. She was jerked, alarmed, back into reality as he approached. 

"Where are you going?" She demanded. He tipped his hat to her before settling it over his brow. 

"You obviously don't like my price. Let me know if you change your mind. You may," he pushed his arm through a sleeve, "Make an appointment with my secretary.. or something." Billy picked up his briefcase. 

"Good luck, kid." He started toward the doors. She gaped. 

"Now, wait one minute. I didn't say _no_." She leapt to her feet, knocking her chair to the floor with a wincing _crash_. Sprinting, Velma managed to slip herself between her would-be counsel and the exit, halting his retreat with a firm hand against his chest. "You're not going anywhere." The woman was truly a force of nature. He afforded the hand a single, distasteful glare before tilting his crow's eyes up to meet hers. 

"Oh, you've _got_ the money, then?" He was impelled to speak softly; there was distressingly little distance between their faces. He had to beat down the impulse to regain the slightest amount of personal space with a backward step. As though this were not enough, she then proceeded to lean in _ludicrously_ close. _Goddamnit._

"I do," the murderess purred. Her eyes wandered boldly over the stony plane of his face. "You'd better be damned good." The entire situation was becoming impossibly funny; it really was. 

"I assure you that you'll have no reason to be disappointed, Miss Kelly." He smiled as she pulled back to regard him a bit warily. Several moments passed before the counselor broke the silence, plucking his client's wrist unceremoniously from his lapel and reaching around her for the doorhandle. "I'll return tomorrow. You'll pay me then," he opened the door, waving a finger under her nose, "and we'll talk." Billy Flynn then slipped away, leaving Velma Kelly to gaze thoughtfully after him. 

----

Billy was roaring with laughter when he'd made the first corner down the hallway and doubled over with helpless hysterics by the time he'd crawled into the back seat of the car. The somewhat bewildered driver, unacknowledged by his employer, had merely offered a polite(albeit perplexed) smile. Flynn threw himself into the leather seatcushion, dabbing furiously at the corners of his eyes with a scarlet handkerchief. 

Oh, yes -- this one was going to be fun. He sat back, blinking away tears and wrestling the convulsions into a light chuckle. Why was he laughing? It had been ages since a client had made him _laugh_; most knew better. Actually, it was.. kind of refreshing. 

The driver's eyes peered cautiously around the front seat. 

"Would you like to go home, sir?" He asked nervously. His employer looked up, seeming to have noticed the other man for the first time. His face was suddenly bisected by a _genuinely_ pleasant smile. 

"Home? Sure, why not." So he went home.


End file.
